


sat in your kitchen with a bottle of scotch

by scalphunter



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Friends to Lovers, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Porn With Plot, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scalphunter/pseuds/scalphunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Skyfall. 00Q. So this was how it was going to be? Skyfall had sliced 007 into the strips of the man he was before and reduced him to breaking and entering his Quartermaster's flat in Chelsea?</p>
            </blockquote>





	sat in your kitchen with a bottle of scotch

**Author's Note:**

> First Skyfall fanfic. Please leave comments & kudos :)
> 
> Also, a small disclaimer:  
> Obviously do not own James Bond - that's all for Flemming.

 

Although Q had never been trained in operations, in the same sense all the field agents were, he knew even with the callous scrape of his key in the lock to his flat that something was amiss. The door steadily opened under his palm eliciting a faint groan from the woodwork. Q stepped into his flat, cautious and alert. The shadows reverberated leaving hollow spots around the place and Q padded forward along the hallway, his pulse skittering like a grass rabbit. His mind racing but his chest feeling very close to limbo, he stepped the two paces it took to the right to find himself staring at his kitchen. This was usual. The silhouetted figure occupying the chair was not.

'Get out, 007' he responded, before sliding his hand habitually across the light switch that, after a few minor stutters, illuminated the kitchen.

'It's relatively humorous that someone of your capacity with codes and red-light systems has such an easy flat to get into' 007 replied, Q raising an eyebrow at the remark.

'Domestic life is what I aim to show I lead. Domesticity is not so fitting with security wiring at HQ. Regardless, if you hadn't had clearance to my _impeccable_ system, you would have encountered a few complications when entering the premises' he deadpanned, eyes drifting away from the agent and to the scotch he had his hand at the base of.

'I have clearance. I feel decidedly more special,' sarcasm lading his voice.

'My Bowmore scotch whisky, 18 years' Q tutted petulantly, ignoring the man's humour. Of course, Bond would pick the finest out of Q's alcohol collection to drink. For his relatively young years, Q had an experienced palate for fine wines and whisky. While the others at Q-branch drank beer, he was happy with a glass of Merlot. That was just the way he was.

'Roughly as old as you look, then?' 007 smirked, that smirk turning into a sneer and he averted Q's eyes.

'Feeling old before your time?' Q asked, removing his scarf and coat, laying them on the chair and walking to the cupboard where he kept his whisky glasses, just under the shot glasses. He hadn't used those in a while, since he left Oxford to be precise. Since Peter left him and before that since Heather. The dull clunk of glass hitting oak as he put the glass down on the table, pulling his chair to align better with the agent's – seeing as the man didn't appear to be going anywhere soon – and prised the bottle out Bond's hand. Pouring a generous amount for himself now that the bottle was already open, Q sipped some and waited for a reply.

'Well I didn't a few minutes ago but seeing my Quartermaster who looks as if he has yet to graduate hits the thought home harder than a bullet fragment' Bond sighed, sliding his glass between his hands. So this was how it was going to be? Skyfall had sliced 007 into the strips of the man he was before and reduced him to breaking and entering his Quartermaster's flat in Chelsea?

'What are you doing here?' he stopped himself saying _007_ or _Bond_ , wondering if M had received this treatment too – an agent who had the idiosyncratic way of going MIA and then appearing in her flat. M was gone: the M who hired him with the help of Tanner, and possibly Felix, not the M who he now reported to. Likely, was the answer. Q had only witnessed one of the briefs and M gave 007 (after shouting at him profusely) a look very close to a mother's acceptance of a boy who would never listen.

'Considering HQ stole and sold my flat and my parent's manor house has been reduced to rubble, I have been staying at hotels. I was seventy per cent sure you wouldn't kick me out'

'That sure of yourself were you?' Q replied, tilting his head. The agent looked up at him, raised an eyebrow and smirked.

'Your size couldn't really throw me out. Besides, I didn't know you liked scotch' Q shrugged, lazily chucking back the glass and feeling the hard burn of the alcohol.

'I never have been a beer man'

'Now who's old for their times?'

'I still haven't forgotten that you let my personalised Walther PPK/S handgun get eaten by a Komodo dragon' Q quipped, hoping somehow to remove that depressing, and victimised expression on the agent's face. He was dealing, that Q could completely understand. How MI6 let their agents be as human as this was quite remarkable.

'That wasn't my fault. I dropped it, you should have made the grip more ergonomical' Bond said lazily if not slightly drunkenly. Q raised an eyebrow at the agent, pursing his lips before enforcing his poker face.

'It was. It was measured for your _exact_ hand span!' Q snapped. Bond hung his head, Q nearly missing the smirk.

Idiotically he desperately wanted to lie to himself, saying that he wasn't tired, wasn't radically similar to the double-oh agent who once jumped off a ravine as if that was the only option out.

'Nobody's perfect. Not even boy geniuses like you' that may sound like a compliment to anyone who hadn't shared many conversations or time through the earpiece via the comms with 007, but Q knew otherwise, knew better.

'You are the most irritating double-oh I have ever had to work with' Q grumbled, aware that he sounded roughly twelve years old. Taking another gulp of his drink, he almost jumped at the obnoxious beeping and vibrating of his mobile. Fetching it, he scowled, seeing a message from Eve.

_How is 007 sweetie? ;)_

Q glared at his phone before locking it without replying. How on earth did Moneypenny know 007 had broken and entered into his flat?

'How's Moneypenny?' Bond asked and Q let his mobile drop to the table. The world had officially gone mad the second Q turned his back on it. It was a bloody conspiracy.

'You told her you were going to break into my flat?'

'No, she refused to let me go to hers and may have mentioned that you might be more inclined to _not_ slam the door in my face'

Q rolled his eyes, tempted the angel of reason in his head and replied, 'Did she now? That woman needs a psych evaluation if this is what she calls knowing her colleagues. I would have, you know, shut the door?'. Bond picked up the bottle, tilted it as though to pour himself another glass; but then he paused, rethinking. 'Oh by the way, you have to come in on Monday for the simulation exam. You have skipped three in the past two years; I shall not let that happen. My predecessor was much too soft on you' Q shook his head.

'Oh bloody hell' was all the verbal response he had.

 

 

Q would like rephrase what he said earlier. 007 was _not_ the most irritating double-oh he ever had to work with. Yes, he returned to Q-branch with broken equipment, managing to pull a pistol into six separate pieces, and a radio that refused to work once it received a blast from a nuclear reactor to name a few. In fact, 007 did not rile him up the most which may surprise anyone who knew how possessive Q was about his prototypes.

008 - Scarlett Papava - had a habit of cooing at him and treating him like a toyboy whenever she sashayed into Q-branch, specifically his office, and gave many interns and other personnel, a Polaroid of flirtation directed at their boss. She gave him a wink, told him to never change and that she'll see him at Christmas. She could kill a man in no less than four moves but treated Q like he would crumble under her touch. It drove him nuts! What was it with the women in MI6? It was true that there weren't as many women employed, as there probably should be – given that MI6 should follow the gender bias and discrimination policy. The Secret Service still is dominantly a 'man's world' and one that the late M ran with a firm hand. All of the women (whether they be agents, International Relations Personnel, programmers etc - except the late M) either wanted to adopt him or pull him around by his tie. Neither which Q saw any delight in taking part. At all. He bristled at the thought and wished 003 would stop calling him 'pet' over the comm while on a mission. Another occurrence of Tajikistan and then Nepal would culminate in Q handing her over to someone else.

004 - William Seymour - he couldn't be more English if you made him a caricature. If 007 had the smooth to almost predatory charm and gentlemanly aura, 004 had the over enthusiastic, grinning, old school boy, plays cricket in his spare time aura. It only did to infuriate Q no end. He would be diligently working, the C++ deciding to have a technical hitch and churned out utter garbage onto the screens, when in walked 004. Back from Cordoba, Argentina with a ruddy great big smirk on his face. Mostly, due to Q's wrath, equipment would be handed in and sent to him via a somewhat frightened intern (especially with 007), however other agents didn't have this destructibility with Q's toys, so gave them back to him personally. 004 would boyishly say 'Q, my dear boy, thank you for the knife. Very useful when one has to warn off paramilitaries on the border'. To which Q would nod and reply with 'Anytime, 004'. The man even bought Q coffee sometimes. If he'd known being head of Q-branch would involve double-oh agents bringing him coffee – sometimes Earl Grey tea – and flirting with him, he would have written a novel about it.

Moneypenny, for example, could defend herself against an attack from the Mossad, but insisted that she ruffled his hair and placed a kiss goodnight on his cheek when her shift ended. The latter Q was not as adverse to but that was irrelevant.

007 had a habit – a part from incinerating a good percentage of Tokyo – of standing extremely close to Q while the quartermaster was working on trying to a hack a source code or decrypt an algorithm. So close that Q nearly confronted a wall of muscle in turning around. Instead, he adjusted his glasses and huffed indignantly, wanting the double-oh to move.

'What's the matter Q?' Bond asked, stepping back a little so Q could skirt around him to pick up the controller pad.

'Nothing. Please leave, you are damaging my chi'

'Your chi? Q you practice Feng Shui?' Bond asked, sounding positively miffed.

'Not actively, no, but I am aware that certain double-oh's have a drastic effect on my energy and rationality levels' he muttered, swivelling to face the comms and switching on the Bluetooth headset. An electronic buzzing, coupled with a sudden life of the screens seem to lighten Q-branch.

'Well that's a pleasantry. Who are you watching over now?'

'002. I lost him in the field – just off Croatia and he hasn't reappeared yet. M is going to have my arse' Q wavered, not particularly liking the prospective idea of being shouted at by M. Once, when he lost signal on 007, M just barked at him 'Well, get it back then!'

'Ah he's a big boy, he can handle himself' Bond replied nonchalantly, Q sensing the minute grin on the agent's face when Q bristled as the comm line was still blank. 'Do you get like this with me?' Bond asked, feigning innocence.

'Don't be ridiculous. I'm too angry with you for losing my equipment to worry about whether you miss a step down a flight of stairs'

 

 

Q could be certain that the interns at Q-branch and a relative proportion of personnel at HQ were plotting against him. He was not speaking of his demise, MI6 could not allow its agents out in the big wide world without him; just slowly driving him to the edge of the cliff of insanity, telling him how nice he was, and then pushing him off. Granted, it was not overtly obvious however, this was the fourth month of this nonsense, and Q's patience had started to wear thin.

There was a tradition in Q-branch, that every Christmas time (the period where they had to work so from December 1st when silly traditions begin - Christmas sweaters should be banned by EU law) someone gave a gift to someone else and they returned it in order to create pairs. The process sorted out years ago, with new interns being involved as they appeared and in the rarity, a double-o. Q had found his Secret Santa giftee to be Michelle in Communications. The woman told him that she was the object of jealousy by many of the other girls. Q had not been aware of this, but thanked her anyway, cleaning his glasses on his cardigan and replacing them on the bridge of his nose. She had given him the scrabble mug with the letter Q, smirking all the while when he unwrapped it. In return, he gave her a leather bound journal, knowing she wrote short stories in what leisure time she had. She ensured him he was a character in one of her stories, to which he told her she should write about some of the agents instead. However, since Q had banned extra giving of gifts by members of Q-branch, and Michelle already given him her gift that morning, he stared at the small, rectangular box, coloured light blue, with a ribbon around it sat on his desk. Turning slowly on his heel, he examined Q-branch office, where suddenly everyone had other things to be getting on with. Q sighed, turned around once again, pushing his glasses further up his nose. He removed the box so see the note underneath. It read –

_To Q,_

_Don't let England fall._

_From an acquaintance.  
_

Q frowned. How very oblique? He tentatively opened the lid of the box. What he found inside was a tie. Q wore ties regularly along with his cardigans and his favourite pair of skinny jeans (purely his favourite due to how comfortable they were and not that they cost him over a hundred-quid). He didn't wear proper suits, as in tuxes or dinner suits, the last time he had he went to an end of term dinner. Q always felt the collar a little tight. This tie he held in his hand, was a dark navy, made out of a silk blend, high quality – Q surmised. It was a tailored length for his torso (he wasn't short – merely small and so every part of his body accommodated for that). He couldn't deny the lovely object but who on earth had given it to him?

'Q?' and the said quartermaster jumped, having paid no attention to the cameras, he wasn't aware of anyone approaching his office. He clutched the tie rather like a child would clutch a toy they have been told to cease playing with. He spun about, hoping it to be an intern or someone he could yell at. It was double-oh seven. Of course it was. To have been caused to jump by a double-oh agent, how demeaning? 'You alright Q?' Bond asked, looking somewhat amused.

'Yes, perfectly fine. I'm wondering what this is'

'It's a tie' Bond replied easily, setting himself – without permission – on the edge of Q's desk.

'Thank you 007, I can see that, what I mean is _why_ someone has given me one?' he halted, not wanting the agent to know about the secret Santa thing Q-branch took part in.

'As a present' Q just stared at the man, he was deliberately being blasé and obvious. Q blanched at it. 'To go with a suit' Bond said after a moment. Q narrowed his eyes, blocking out the urge to reply with _yes, obviously._ 'It's hanging on your wardrobe at your flat. The perks of having clearance' Bond smirked. Q's eyes widened.

'What?' he did not appreciate the pitch to which his voice reached with that single utterance.

'You're coming with me to dinner, Savoy Hotel. Happy Christmas quartermaster' and he left. Literally. The man strode out of Q-branch, Q left spluttering and wondering why, in the name of King George the fifth, did James Bond just ask him to dinner _?_


End file.
